


flesh and bone

by sonatine



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, ghost story, graveyard, mythology AU, the graveyard book au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7477632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonatine/pseuds/sonatine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes keeps Steve Rogers alive by giving him free passage and residence in a graveyard whose occupants are, most notably, dead</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notcaycepollard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/gifts).



> Based on Neil Gaiman’s _the graveyard book_ , a truly excellent story

This time they had Steve surrounded. This time they were going to kill him for real.

Steve felt that new, cold feeling of uncertainty associated with the cruel knowledge that he just might not scrape by this time.

It figured that he'd lose his faith in humanity just as life lost faith in him.

It also figured that said life would be saved by those not technically human.

Fate had a funnybone.

+

“I'm calling this emergency graveyard meeting to order because _some of us_ , not naming any names, but some of us _bleeding heart liberals_ have gone and saved a scrawny twerp of a human who is now present in our midst—”

All heads swiveled to look at Steve.

He nodded, patting the wounds across his body with a hanky. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

A man with rumpled clothes and even more rumpled hair made a despairing noise of amusement.

“And now it's up to us to decide what to do with him, because Barnes has so graciously invited him into our secret.”

“It's a graveyard, Stark,” said the man called Barnes, who had just saved Steve’s life. Not five minutes ago he had been cradling Steve to his chest as he carried him through the very-solid-looking iron fence surrounding the graveyard and away from danger, but now he was keeping a keen distance. “I'm pretty sure he's not overly surprised to find dead people inside.”

“Yeah, but could he ever _see or touch them_ before?”

“Don't worry,” Steve said, holding up his hands. “I can just leave. I won't tell anyone, cross my heart.”

A redheaded woman lounging on top of a rounded gravestone leveled him with a serious look.

“That's the thing,” she said. “It's not that simple.”

+

The procession of ghosts, and Steve, halted in front of a weathered old stone at the very top of the hill. A tall black man in head-to-toe black leather and a black eyepatch and a black sense of humor looked Steve up and down.

“I take it you're from the future?” Steve said, because a) he wasn't stupid and b) all of the graveyard’s residents were clearly from different eras. How they all ended up here _now_ , in _this_ graveyard, in 1938 was the question they'd all been neatly avoiding.

“Fury is our oldest and dearest resident,” Stark proclaimed. “Right, Nick?”

“I'm still not letting you turn the East Wing into a laboratory, Tony.”

“Why not?!”

“I'm sorry, you're the _oldest?”_ Steve interrupted.

“Ever studied mythology, kid?” asked the rumple-haired man.

“There used to be two more of him,” the blond archer whispered, and Steve thought, _furies,_ and felt very small.

Nick was eyeing him with a knowing look. “So basically—from my understanding—”

“Nick’s a great eavesdropper,” Tony said in a carrying whisper. “His grave is always downwind.”

“—our honorary resident has unwittingly given this living boy the Freedom of the Graveyard.”

“That's the skinny,” the archer said cheerfully.

“Look,” said Steve. “I don't want any trouble. I can just leave.”

“No, Mr. Rogers,” Nick Fury said slowly. “You can't.”

+

“Have you ever heard of a man named Herr Schmidt?” he asked.

“That's Mr. Smith in English,” Tony piped up.

 _“We know, Tony_ , _”_ and _“Shut up,”_ chorused the other ghosts.

“No,” said Steve.

“I'm not surprised,” said Nick. “Hydra likes to operate mainly in secret.”

“Hydra,” Steve repeated, slightly hysterically. “What about Scylla? And Charybdis?”

“Dead for centuries,” Nick said, missing (or choosing to ignore) Steve’s sarcasm. “Won't reform until well after you're gone. Anyhow, Hydra and its top agent, Schmidt, has been a pain in my ass for longer than I care to admit. _Shut up, Stark._ And now that Schmidt knows you're in _here_ , it's not safe for you out _there_.”

“I think there's been some mistake. Those were just some local thugs who think it's fun to beat up fai— Um.”

The redheaded woman raised an eyebrow at Barnes, who was intently studying his flawless cuticles.

“They weren't,” Nick said flatly. “And now a bond has been formed between you and Schmidt. The way it works: you're here in the graveyard, no living being can see, touch, or harm you. You step out of this graveyard: you're at the mercy of the world.”

“Okay,” said Steve. “That's very kind, and thanks, but why does Mr. Smith care about me at all?”

Nick sat down wearily onto his weathered rock. Everyone leaned forward with interest.

“Because, Mr. Rogers,” he said, “there is a prophecy that someday, in the not-so-distant future, you will save the world.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [tumblr link](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/post/147353025029/flesh-and-bone) ]


	2. Chapter 2

"And saving the world kinda goes against Hydra’s—and Schmidt’s—entire world view,” Nick added.

“Uh huh,” Steve said, for lack of anything else to stay.

Nick rose to his feet. “You can bunk with Barnes until we figure out what to do with you.”

Then he disappeared.

“Oh,” said Steve. “That’s it?”

“Well!” Tony clapped his hands together. “Fury has spoken. Looks like you're stuck with us, Steve-o, for better or for worse. Till death do us part. I can't promise to protect you from any harm, though how do you feel about experiments in graveyard improvement?”

“Bucky, why don't you show our new guest where he's staying,” the rumple-haired man interrupted. At closer glance, Steve noticed he was in Victorian dress and had a thin pince-nez. “This is probably a lot for him right now.”

“Yeah, all right,” Barnes muttered, and jerked his head toward Steve. “This way.”

“So how long have you been, um. Dead?” asked Steve, clearly just as suave around the non-living.

“Oh, he’s not,” said Stark, jumping onto Barnes and ruffling his pretty-boy hair. “Bucky here is—”

“An honorary resident of the graveyard,” Barnes said flatly, pushing Stark off him. “Go blow something up.”

Barnes led Steve up the path, past the rows of flat stones and wood crosses, and through the lanes of larger tombs until they reached a small chapel on the far side of the graveyard, surrounded by trees and covered in lime green moss.

“You’ll be sleeping here with me,” Barnes said, pushing open the battered wooden doors. “It’s not great, but at least with Freedom of the Graveyard you can see in the dark and not, you know. Feel the cold. Or damp. Um. I’ll just—”

He busied himself putting blankets and an grainsack filled with hay onto what looked like an old wooden church pew.

“Might be hard on your back,” he said worriedly.

“Got a bad back anyway,” Steve shrugged. “Will actually be better for my spine.”

“I don’t—snore or anything,” Barnes said. His hands were flying everywhere—from his pockets to his hips to wringing themselves together. “And I’m always asleep during the day but don’t feel like, you know, you have to stick to that schedule too.”

“Where do you sleep?” Steve asked interestedly.

Barnes waved in the direction of a sleek black coffin in the far end of the chapel, looking highly uncomfortable.

“Not claustrophobic, then?” Steve joked.

“No.” Barnes fled out the doors, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll bring you food and water every day. Don’t worry about that.”

+

“I think Barnes is avoiding me,” Steve said to the redheaded woman, whose name was Natalia but whom everyone seemed to call Natasha, out of both fear and affection.

She smiled. “It’s funny you call him that.”

“He hasn’t given me permission to call him by his first name,” Steve said, embarrassed.

“Hm,” she said, pleased. “Nice to talk to someone with manners. Tony died in the 1990s. He has zero respect for anyone.”

“Casual familiarity _is_ a sign of respect, Nat!” Stark’s voice floated over to from—somewhere. The Victorian Wing? Steve didn’t know the graveyard well enough yet.

Natasha blew out a sigh.

“When did you die?” Steve asked tentatively, because he wasn’t yet certain if this was an offensive question or not.

“Bolshevik Revolution,” she said.

“Er,” said Steve, who had definitely gone to Junior High, but had to drop out when he was fourteen to help his ma pay the bills.

“Nineteen-seventeen,” Clint said helpfully, climbing out of his grave and tripping over the Maximoff twins’ headstone. “Shit. Sorry, guys.”

“You got dirt in my hair,” Wanda called up from below.

“Oh,” Steve said, taken aback as he did the dates in his head. “Then you’re—not that much older than me.” He stared at Natasha, who looked world-weary and wise. “You might be my ma’s age.”

Clint, it turned out, had an explosion of a laugh. “What a charmer!”

“Where’s your mother buried?” Natasha asked quietly, and Steve startled, for he hadn’t thought—he’d never considered—

“I’m. Not sure. TB ward,” he said, and Natasha took his hand, for even the dead can’t come back from ashes.

+

“You’re avoiding me,” Steve said to Barnes as the sun was setting. He had been sitting beside the sleek coffin for an hour, to ensure Barnes didn’t slip away outside before he could talk to him.

“I’m not,” said Barnes, and moved to brush past him.

“Liar,” Steve called, and Barnes stiffened. He turned back to him, flanked by the setting light through the doorway.

“What do you want, Steve?”

“I want to be friends, _Bucky,”_ and he was glad to see Barnes’ spine straighten. “I live here now—”

“Because of me,” Bucky said, under his breath.

Steve paused. “Yeah: you saved me.”

“Did I?” Bucky looked miserable. “I also robbed you of a real life. That's no way for a human to live, cooped up with dead people—”

“Hey.” Steve had moved toward Bucky and laid a hand on his arm. Bucky jumped and jerked away. He was cold to the touch, even though it was a sticky summer night. “You saved my life. And it's not like my life expectancy was long to begin with.”

Bucky eyed him warily. “But you're young, right? You look young.”

“Eighteen last week—and a host of health problems for the last seventeen. Want to hear them all?”

Bucky did. He also laughed incredulously when Steve reached the end of his list.

“I take it back,” he said, with the first real smile Steve had seen. “You probably would've died in a week. If getting into fights every week didn't do you in sooner,” he added sternly.

“Okay, it's not my fault—” Steve paused. “How did you know I get into fights?”

“Uh.” Bucky’s easy familiarity disappeared. “I, you know, saw you around town before, maybe. I'll go get you some food now.”

And he fled into the night, leaving Steve confused and anticipating in the cooling chapel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [tumblr link](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/post/147452628899/flesh-and-bone) ]


	3. Chapter 3

It turned out that without backbreaking labor during the day and heat-less apartments at night, Steve’s annual quota of sick days decreased exponentially. He slept better during the day with the warmth of the sunlight filtering through the chapel and breathed easier in the cool, pollen-free night air.

And most of the graveyard’s residents ran on a nocturnal schedule anyway. Come to think of it, it was only Tony that Steve saw during the day—but then, he never seemed to sleep, ever.

“I'll sleep when I'm dead,” he said cheerfully when the Victorian doctor, who Steve now knew as Bruce, reprimanded him for working too hard. “ _Oh wait.”_

“You're incorrigible,” Bruce sighed, but Steve saw him tamping down a smile. “Steve, good evening. I was going to make the rounds, would you like to come along?”

“Sure,” Steve said, because what else did he have to do?

“It's funny how hard habits are to break,” said Bruce as they strolled up the modern section and into the Victorian bit. He straightened creeping bits of ivy off the path, fixed an upturned urn, and bent to scratch a stray cat behind the ears. “I always used to make patient visits at sunset, and now I still do. Pietro, how's the arm?”

“It's fine, doc,” he protested, but found himself sitting atop his grave and submitting to a medical examination anyway.

“You're exacerbating it,” Bruce said with a stern glance over his bifocals. “By running.”

“What's my legs got to do with my arm?”

“Your whole body is connected. Each piece affects another.”

“Fine, I'll take it easy. Seen Clint? We’re going to shoot at trash left on the fence.”

“Not with that arm!” Bruce shouted after him, but he'd already disappeared in a whirlwind. Bruce rubbed his eyes and muttered, “Thankless job.”

Once Bruce discovered that Steve was an artist, waving away his protests of _amateur, really,_ he set Steve to touching up fading gravestones, rusting bits of fence, and general cemetery maintenance. Steve didn't mind. He felt at ends.

Natasha came across him one day when he was up an apple tree, cutting away a vine of jasmine that was slowly strangling it to death.

“Bruce wasted no time putting you to work, huh?” 

Steve shrugged. “Idle hands are the devil's playground.”

“Indeed.” She looked dryly amused. “Clint is the laziest bum to ever walk the face of the earth. He doesn't understand the schedule I used to keep at the Bolshoi at all.”

Steve smiled and accepted a hand down. “If you don't mind me asking, ma’am, I’ve seen you spar with the others. How does a ballerina learn skills like that?”

She grinned at him then, a large shark look that suddenly made Steve very glad she was already dead. “It was mostly a front. You can't be a female part of your cousin’s secret service out in the open.”

“Your cousin?”

“Nikolai Alexandrovitch. Romanov?” she added at Steve’s blank look. “Tsar of Russia until his forced abdication and death? Wow, Steve, we have to brush up on your history,” and every day subsequently she took it upon herself to educate Steve in the best and worst of the illustrious Russian empire.

“Only one of my nieces had the temperament for the Black Widow program,” she sighed as they fixed the sagging roof of the mausoleum one evening. “Pity. Too much Alexandra in them. All that Anglo-Saxon blood.” She dodged Steve’s swat.

“Which niece did you end up training?”

She shook her head. “Names have power. She was the only one that escaped. Don't want to expose her. She resembled me, though,” she added wistfully.

After that, Steve made sure to visit with Natasha every day. And all the other residents. Because ghosts are still humans, after all, and need companionship even in death.

+

This became blindly apparent the more Steve used his eyes. He would’ve thought that inter-centenary relationships would have been too difficult to navigate, but Natasha and Clint seemed to manage well enough. As did others.

“If you'll excuse me,” Bruce muttered when Steve stumbled across him and Tony pushed up against an Egyptian obelisk, and fled, blushing furiously.

“Don't mind him,” said Tony, proudly mussed. “Homosexuality was illegal when he was alive. He's still kinda touchy about it.”

“Yeah,” Steve said slowly. “Where I'm from too.”

“Ah, well, it gets better for our kind,” Tony said. “Queers, I mean, not circus freaks. Not that you'll get benefit from it, but nice to know future generations will, eh?”

“Yeah,” Steve said wanly.

+

Bucky seemed to take his ability to leave very seriously. Days would pass when Steve wouldn’t see him at all, though Bucky always made sure there was a good stockpile of food in the chapel for him.

“Lucky bastard,” Tony said. “My feet are growing roots here. They're itching. Why haven't you seduced him yet? That'd keep him around more.”

“Tell me something,” Steve said irritably, “why is it that out of these hundreds of graves here I only manage to see like five of you?”

“Because we’re awesome,” Tony said, hopping down to the path. “Most dead are boring and just sleep for eternity. But dude.” He called back as he raced to the Victorian Wing, “I bet Barnes is a biter! Try it and tell me how it goes!”

+

“Hey,” Steve said when Bucky returned to the chapel just after dawn. His eyes were heavy and closing on their own, but he wanted to catch Bucky before he fell asleep (and slipped out of the graveyard before Steve woke).

Bucky stopped in the doorway, hesitantly, then slid inside.

“Hey yourself,” he said, climbing into the coffin. Steve could hear him rustling, settling.

“How was your day?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“What century was it out there today?”

Bucky shot him a sidelong look. “Second. Byzantine Empire.”

Steve sat straight up on his pew. “It changes location too?”

Bucky looked very regretful that he'd ever opened his mouth. “Yeah.”

“What do you do when you're out and about? Just exploring? Or—do you work?”

“Making amends.”

“Oh. But do you—”

“ _Steve,”_ Bucky begged. “Let me sleep.”

Abashed: “Oh! Sorry.”

Bucky sighed and rolled over. Steve listened to his breathing: relaxed, but not heavy yet.  
“How long have you lived in the graveyard?”

Bucky made a despairing noise. “I don't. Officially.”

“Because you're not dead,” Steve realized, because he could never willingly let things go. Like a tongue to a toothache, his mother had always said. “Then why do you—”

“Penance,” Bucky said shortly. He reached up and closed the lid with a definitive slam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [tumblr link](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/post/147492206314/flesh-and-bone) ]


	4. Chapter 4

The graveyard gates creaked open early one morning and Steve froze in place, pencil poised over the sketchbook that Bucky had obtained for him on his latest foray into the outside world.

He steeled himself to fight Schmidt, or Hydra, or whoever, but it was just a group of people accompanied by a coffin. _A funeral procession,_ Steve realized with a laugh—normal enough in a graveyard.

Except the mourners were all clearly in fine clothing, expensive and royal, that belonged in a bygone era of Japan when daimyou reigned.

Steve heard a rustling noise beside him. He asked, eyes still on the procession, “How—?”

“Special kind of graveyard,” said Clint. “For enhanced humans and other ilk. Regular rules of time and place don't really apply. People here are experiments gone wrong, mostly, which is a worrying statistic.”

“Then why are _you_ here?” asked Steve, for Clint seemed very… normal to him, but Barton just sniffed.

“Demigods aren't immortal,” he said huffily. “Despite our divine parentage. Raw deal, eh? Barnes, hold up, you promised me stats! Who won Game Two?”

“I didn't watch,” Bucky said. He shoved a packet of food into Steve’s hands. It smelled delicious, but was wrapped in weird crinkly silver material. “Sports bar was too crowded.”

“Get over yourself! You're the only one that can go outside, I'm _dying_ in here.”

“What's a sports bar?” Steve said around a mouthful of fried sticks.

“Only the greatest invention the world has ever seen.”

“You're biased,” Bucky grunted.

“Excuse you, Dad didn't invent sports bars. Just sports. Humans are so cool,” Clint sighed.

“That enough?” Bucky said, watching Steve worriedly. “You still hungry? I can go get more.”

“This is good,” Steve assured him. “I don't actually eat that much.”

“I just don't know normal portions,” Bucky muttered. “I'm going to get some non-perishables to keep in the chapel. Just in case.”

“Check a newspaper at least if it's modern era again!” Clint shouted after him. “Goddamn, what a waste.” He noticed Steve’s look and explained, “Gate rotates around time. You don't realize how lucky you were that Bucky found you when he did. Pietro! Wanna race?” and he left Steve sitting with a handful of grease and empty wrappers.

+

It was harder to keep track of time without the normal markers of passage. The dead had nowhere to be, nor nothing to accomplish within deadline. Steve’s days stretched out lazily in front of him, as Bucky disappeared more and more, and he began to feel isolated. 

He walked up the hill to visit Nick.

“Bee in your bonnet, Rogers?”

“I want to know more about this prophecy.”

Fury arched an eyebrow. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to pester me about this. Tony’s got a running bet.”

“Of course he does,” said Steve. “Who did I just help win?”

“Me.” Nick looked amused. “I said six months.”

“And how long’s it been?” Steve was actually a little squiggly about the outside world.

“Just over a year.” Nick leveled him with a one-eyed stare. “I have to say, you adjusted to life in here better than I'd expected.”

“Really?” Steve said, pleased. 

“Because most living do not adapt well to the life of the dead,” Nick added, and Steve’s pride vanished with a sharp twist. 

“It's restful here,” he snapped.

“So they say.” Nick leaned back onto his elbows and crossed his legs. “Most people would've been homesick for the outside world by now, is all.”

“That's what I came to talk to you about,” said Steve. “This bond with Schmidt—you said it's not safe for me outside the graveyard anymore?”

“That's correct.”

“But really,” Steve wheedled, “no one is ever truly safe. Anyone can die at any time.”

“That is also correct,” Fury said. “But if you die before you're meant to, the world is going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

“Before I'm _meant_ to?”

“That's kind of how fate works, Mr. Rogers.” Fury was definitely amused now. “You're going to save the world, and Schmidt doesn't want you to. Even if you weren't meant to before, you definitely are now. Because he’s marked you, see?”

“I think Schmidt shouldn't place all his eggs in one basket because of one iffy prophecy,” Steve said. “Maybe I'm the wrong guy.”

Nick breathed out hard through his nose.

“The thing about prophecies, when you're dealing with a place like this where time is a little weird… It’s more reporting facts after returning to the past rather than blindly predicting a future event.”

Steve blinked.

Nick had a pitying look on his face. “You're thinking of time as a straight line: with arrows pointing in opposite directions from where you are presently standing. Schmidt sees it as a circle.”

+

Steve blew into the chapel in a towering mood. Bucky was lounging in his coffin. 

“Oh, you're here,” said Steve. “For once.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “What's up with you?”

“Nothing. Just talking to Nick.”

“Ah.” Bucky leaned back and stretched. “We were wondering when you would.”

“Does everyone here just sit around talking about me!”

“You're the only living guy in a place full of dead people. You're the only interesting thing around.”

“You all are interesting too.” Steve flopped down on his pew.

“Yeah,” said Bucky, looking at him fondly. “But everyone here already had their shot at life. Things can still happen to you.” 

Steve’s eyes slid over to Bucky. “That's kinda what I was talking to Nick about.”

“Ah,” Bucky said again. “Don't let him get to you. You realize you'll have to leave the graveyard eventually to fulfill the prophecy, right?”

“Um.” He hadn't. “Then why does Nick—”

“Who knows,” Bucky said, suddenly moody. “When you've been around that long… I mean to him, a human lifespan is a blink of an eye, right? It's easy to try and be overprotective or controlling.”

“Then Nick doesn't know me very well at all,” Steve said. “I'm tempted to just stay here forever to spite him.”

Bucky snorted. “Prophecy isn’t an order to do something. It's a more like a prediction of what you'd do based on past statistical data.”

“Nick said it was a report of events that already happened.”

“Whatever,” Bucky said, yawning hugely. “Either way, saving the world sounds like something you would do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [tumblr link](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/post/147542945879/flesh-and-bone) ]


	5. Chapter 5

“No, back off,” Bucky was saying. “The most important part of a fight is to know when to pull back.”

“That makes no sense,” Wanda complained.

“Can't always be on the offensive,” said Bucky. “Again.”

Wanda repeated the lesson, breathing heavily, and then flopped on the ground. “I don't know why you're making me learn this. I can just as easily Fade or Haunt if I want to win a fight.”

“Hand-to-hand combat is important.” Bucky shook out his shoulder. “What if you're fighting another non-corporeal?”

“Have you taught this to Pietro yet?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

“No. He keeps blowing me off.” Bucky caught sight of Steve snooping from behind a plinth. “You gonna join us, Rogers, or just stand there gawking all day?”

“I already know how to fight,” Steve said, but came out all the same.

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Sure. I've seen you. All elbows and adrenaline rage. You tire out in five minutes.”

“Geez, excuse me.”

“You need _stamina,_ ” Bucky said. “Get your hands up. You're gonna learn to pace yourself.”

+

“Wanda. Wanda. Wanda.”

She stuck her head out of her grave. _“What.”_

“Teach me to Fade. And Haunt. And Dreamwalk.”

“No. You are too clumsy. And human. It'll never take.”

“I'll sit here and sing Irish drinking songs until you do.”

She leveled him with a glare. “You will not.”

“Ahh, you're right. I won't. But if you teach me to Fade, I _will_ devote my time here to frightening Tony.”

Wanda considered for half a heartbeat. “Okay.”

+

Bucky walked into the chapel at sunrise to find Steve standing in the middle of the room, red faced, and sweating.

“What am I looking at here?”

“Fading.”

“Ah. Well, you're still very solid.”

“I know,” Steve snapped. “I'm having trouble concentrating.”

“It's all in the breathing,” Bucky advised. He crossed the room and flopped into his coffin. “The stillness in between breaths.”

Steve inhaled. And exhaled. Then he flickered out of sight, just for a moment.

Bucky tucked his arms beneath his head and listened to Steve breathe.

+

Steve woke a little before sunset and went to find Natasha to see if she wanted to practice sparring; but she was _cleaning_ her grave and humming.

“Are you expecting visitors?”

“Clean home, clean spirit,” she said. “Go bother someone else today, Rogers.”

Clint wasn’t anywhere to be found. Tony and Bruce were popping up hither and thither, conferring in low tones. Steve gave up on everyone and went to find Bucky: but the chapel was empty.

Truly befuddled now, Steve wandered back down the lanes to find the graveyard completely empty. What’s more: the gates were standing wide open.

Steve eased his way toward them, but felt no sense of impending doom. The entire town was hushed and muffled, like after a snowstorm, as he stepped outside for the first time since Bucky had carried him through nearly two years ago.

+

The streets were covered in soft white flower petals that were falling from the trees around the old part of town. The mayor (Steve remembered seeing his campaign posters a couple years ago with that bland smiling face and the bland plain-lettered signs: _Vote Coulson!)_ was standing on a street corner, handing out flowers to pin to lapels.

“Tradition,” he said, handing one to a mother and her child. “Support the War Cause,” he said, and Steve pinned the flower absently to his button-down that was much too tight on him now.

“What’s that song?” Steve asked.

“Hm?” said Coulson, preoccupied with a group of people further down the street.

“That song you were humming. I keep hearing it…” Steve trailed off because, walking sedately and regally down the street from up on the hill, was his family of ghosts.

They stopped in the middle of the square. A gust of wind blew down the main street, pulling the petals from the ground and swirling them into the air, and then the music started.

Steve didn’t know where it was coming from, but everyone seemed to hear it. Then before he knew it, he was dancing with Natasha, and then Wanda, and then Clint, and he saw Tony dancing with the lady with the baby, Pietro with the paper boy, and Mayor Coulson with Bruce.

_One to go and one to stay, but all must dance the macabre_ , Steve found himself singing along, absently looking for Bucky among the crowd: and then he spotted him, standing at the foot of the graveyard gates with longing etched into every line of his face.

Steve broke away from his current partner and was moving toward Bucky when he saw her.

A lady—the most beautiful lady probably to exist ever—with blood-red lips and long curling brown hair, riding the largest horse he’d ever seen—a Grey—was ambling down main street. People stopped and gawked, in awe, as she passed by, nodding pleasantly.

She paused when she came across Steve. She eyed him, knowingly, and smiled. Steve smiled back, feeling safe and warm, and then she was gone.

“Hey,” he said to Bucky once he’d reached the graveyard. He could still hear the music in the square and the sound of people laughing as they danced. “You don’t dance?”

“Not this one,” said Bucky.

He looked so sad that Steve reached for his hand and said, “Come on, I’ll teach you—I mean, I’m not great either, but it’s not hard—”

“No, Steve,” Bucky said firmly, and disappeared into the graveyard.

Steve shrugged and returned to the square.

+

“Why’d you run away?” Steve whispered to him that night when they were curled up in bed. Steve’s pew had been slowly inching closer to Bucky’s coffin over the years, and they were now placed side-by-side. “I would’ve danced with you.”

Bucky blew out a breath. “The Danse Macabre is for the living and the dead.” His voice was heavy and flat. “And I am neither.”

“I don’t care,” Steve whispered fiercely, because what the _hell_ that Bucky should be left out of anything— that wasn’t _fair_.

Bucky huffed a laugh. “You should,” he said, but his tone was warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [tumblr link](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/post/147597081074/flesh-and-bone) ]


	6. Chapter 6

Steve couldn't help it. The next time Bucky rose at sunset and loped toward the graveyard gates, Steve followed.

+

It was New York. It was definitely New York and the 1930s and Steve just _ached_.

He wandered around familiar streets and ducked his head from familiar people (that one woman he always saw on the trolley, that grocer with the mustache, the one lamplighter who had to stand on his tiptoes) and just basked in the familiarity. Surely Schmidt didn't have a sensor on him or anything. How would he know Steve was out and about?

Something strange was happening to Steve. After feeling so long that he didn't belong among regular people—that surely this daily grind wasn't _it_ , that surely there was more to life—now he never wanted so badly to be a part of it all.

It was almost overwhelming, the hustle and bustle of just a normal weekday evening. The dead are not pressed; they have no need to hurry. But everyone Steve passed was walking with purpose and intent: he was meandering, a lost soul.

He then heard a commotion on a street corner and felt a sharp relief of, _ah, yes, this I know. This I can do._

“Hey,” he said, barging his way into the circle, “I hope you fellas have a good reason for messing with this girl who was minding her own business.”

They all stopped and stared at him. Not menacingly; in confusion.

“What?” one of the larger guys said.

“Did I stutter? Or are you stupid as well as a bully?”

The girl quietly slipped away when all the men were staring at Steve in frank bewilderment.

“He don't talk like any fairy I ever saw,” one said.

“Looks like he crawled out of the gutter, to boot,” said another.

Steve caught a glimpse of himself in a store window’s reflection and suddenly saw what they saw: shirt and trousers too short, frayed and pulling at the ankles and wrists; dirt-streaked; shaggy hair; bare feet; and with a newly acquired transcontinental and trans-temporal accent.

He was _different._

People don't like _different._ People are afraid of _different_.

“Gotta go,” Steve said, and turned and ran.

At least three of the least-heavy men chased him, but Steve had the new advantage of better health and a skinny frame. He wove through crowds and side streets until he was running alone. Laughing, he ducked into an alley to catch his breath.

And then rocketed out of his skin to find a shadow not two inches away.

“What the _fuck,_ Steve,” Bucky nearly screamed.

“It's fine,” Steve said, panting but not in a bad way—not in an asthma way. “They were too slow for me.”

“That's not what—people saw you! Everyone saw you!”

“Yeah,” said Steve. “Distracted them enough so that the girl could escape.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, pulling hard. “That's not the point! You're acting like you're you're still part of the living world.”

“I kind of am.”

“You’re also a target for Schmidt! He has eyes _everywhere_ and now you've just—”

One of the men slid into the alley just then. Before Steve could even register what he was holding in his hand, he’d stabbed the broken bottle into Steve’s side.

Hazy from the worst pain he’d ever experienced, Steve heard a mechanical whirring noise as Bucky grabbed the man by the throat with his left arm, twisted his wrist, and then threw him down the alley.

The man flew a full city block and hit the wall with a pallid slap. The body slid down to the ground.

Although Steve lived exclusively amongst dead people, the sight of this very dead body made bile rise into his throat. He threw up in a corner as Bucky watched, miserably.

“C’mon,” Bucky said, hefting Steve into his arms in a parallel of two years previously. “Let's get you back before anything else happens.”

The loss of blood must have been making him woozy, because the trip back to the graveyard took mere seconds, and Bucky was carrying Steve as if he weighed nothing.

The gates shut behind them and Bucky let out a corresponding sigh of relief. He gently laid Steve on the ground and raced off, calling for Bruce.

“ _Well_ , well,” a supremely smug voice said from above. “Look what golden boy’s gone and done. If you wanted to stay with us forever, Steve, there are better ways of going about it.”

“I thought this cemetery was only for enhanced people anyway,” Steve said, successively burning hot and then freezing cold.

“Oh, yeah, true,” conceded Tony. “You just have a death wish then? There are better ways of getting your boyfriend's attention.”

“You know what I can't understand,” Steve said, blinking through the sweat that was pooling on his forehead. “Is how _you're_ here. You seem pretty human to me.”

“Ah, sweet ignorance. My old man’s greatest triumph was creating The Perfect Man by way of science. Sounds hella gay, I know, and it probably was. Anyhow, he created this chump beacon of humanity, Captain America, maybe you've heard of him— oh no, you wouldn't, he’s after your time. _Anyhow,_ Pops juiced me up with this bastardized form of the serum they used on Ol’ Cap—”

“Your own father?” Steve said, throat dry. “Experimented on you?”

“I wouldn't say ‘experimented on’ so much as ‘volunteered myself out of desperate attempt to gain father’s approval’, but it all amounts to the same thing, doesn't it? Oh, here’s the doc. Glad you're here, sweetheart, our living boy’s gone and pulled an us.”

Bucky hovered at Steve’s side. “Is he okay? Will he be okay? It is serious?”

“Oh, I imagine he’ll be fine,” said Bruce, rummaging through his black leather doctor’s bag. “It doesn't look deep.”

“Are you sure? It didn't hit any arteries? He’s shivering, look!”

“Tony,” Bruce said calmly, taking small bottles and gauze out of his bag, “why don't you and Barnes go take a walk.”

“Yeah, good call. Come on, Bucko, your small wife will give birth easier without you helicoptering.”

“How did you die, anyway?” Steve said crankily. Bucky made an explosive, desperate laugh that bordered on a sob.

“Ah, well, fun fact,” said Tony, “avenging your parents’ deaths doesn't always go so well.”

+

Steve woke up to Bucky’s face hovering in his vision.

“Oh good,” Bucky said in visible relief. “I thought… All right, I know you're not gonna croak on me, I'm gonna go get you some food.”

Steve grabbed hold of his sleeve before he could flee. “Don't do this.”

“Don't feed you?”

“Well right now, don't play dumb, but mostly: don't pull away again.”

“Don't know what you're talking about.” Bucky shook loose of Steve’s grip.

“Sure, you do. Every so often you freak out and start avoiding me. Because— I don't know— you think I'll be afraid of you?”

“Steve,” he said, warning. “Don't pull on that thread.”

“Whatever. I don't care that you've hurt people in the past—” Bucky’s eyes flicked up— “because I know you'd never hurt me—” Bucky flinched— “and I know you can't help the way you are—” Bucky physically recoiled, as if Steve had socked him— “but I trust you no matter what, so if you just, you know, maybe tell me when I'm standing too close or if you feel the urge to…bite…”

Bucky’s misery and anger was fading into confusion.

“Bite?”

“Yeah, you know, to suck… blood…”

Steve trailed off because Bucky had quite literally fallen over laughing. He sat down on the floor and laughed into his hands until he wept.

“Oh my god,” he finally said, wiping his eyes. “You think I'm a _vampire_ , don't you? Oh god, _Steve._ ”

“Well!” Steve felt compelled to defend himself. “You sleep during the day and—you've been around for a while and you said… penance… and you're always cold—”

Bucky scooted closer to Steve. He pulled the glove off his left hand and pushed up his sleeve.

Steve reached out hesitantly, entranced. The _entire_ arm was metal, like something out of a sci-fi feature at the cinema on DeKalb, cold and beautiful.

“It overheats in the sun,” Bucky explained. “Worse than it used to. I mean, it's Renaissance engineering—it's good workmanship, but it hasn't been properly serviced since I broke through brainwashing and killed all my handlers.”

Bucky said this last part slowly and deliberately, his eyes never leaving Steve’s. Steve tried to keep his expression neutral, but Bucky huffed out a laugh.

“You're a terrible liar.”

“I'm so sorry, Buck,” said Steve, because what else could you say? “It was Hydra, wasn't it?”

“Yeah.”

“It captured you?” Steve asked, fury building.

“Nah,” Bucky said, looking ancient. “Bargain gone bad. Turns out when you exchange your life for your dying sister’s, it doesn't always mean death.”

“I'm going to tear Hydra apart limb by limb,” Steve said, calmly and coldly, and Bucky buried his face in his hands.

“See,” he said, “no matter what, I ruin people’s lives. I'm like the kiss of death.”

“God, you're melodramatic,” Steve said, and Bucky shoved him.

+

Steve asked, “But why do you sleep in a _coffin?”_

“Um,” said Bucky. “It's lined with padding? I'm not a ghost. I feel discomfort.”

+

Gossip travels fast in any small community, and a graveyard is no exception. Tony bared his teeth at Steve in an appalling grimace every time they crossed paths. Bruce appeared to be in severe pain from holding back laughter.

Steve took solace in Natasha’s company, whose sense of loyalty to Barnes only slightly outweighed her sense of schadenfreude.

“You're not the first to make that mistake,” she said. “The Winter Soldier was part of the reason the vampire myth was born.”

“The—?”

“Oh.” Natasha averted her gaze. “Guess he didn't… That's what Hydra called him, when he was their pet. Their right arm.”

“He said he made a bargain with them,” said Steve, throat suddenly dry.

“He did. His life in exchange for his sister’s. But when Hydra owns you, and you have skills like Bucky’s, they put you to work. You don't spend centuries as a silent, invisible assassin without spurring some myths.” Natasha smiled sadly. “He's more ghost than us, in many ways.”

“But where did the sucking blood thing come from?”

“Blood is a life force,” is all Natasha said, and, apparently done with the conversation, she faded back into her grave to rest.

+

Bucky watched Steve in confusion as he climbed into the open coffin with him.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“Sleeping in this cozy death box with you. That pew _is_ hard on my back, you were right.”

Bucky’s sigh of exasperation ruffled Steve’s hair. “C’mere, you punk.”

Head pillowed on Bucky’s shoulder and with Bucky’s warm, steady heartbeat beneath his hand, it was the best day’s sleep in Steve’s memory.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [tumblr link](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/post/147647521609/flesh-and-bone) ]


	7. Chapter 7

It was an odd thing, growing older. Tony didn't annoy Steve so much anymore. Clint’s pranks no longer interested him; and he and Wanda had less to talk about on a daily basis. Each passing year was a reminder that Steve was getting older and that his friends were trapped at the age of their death, forever.

Nothing there ever changed; but he did.

+

The first time Steve dared was when they were curled up in Bucky’s coffin, mid-morning. Neither could sleep, and Bucky was regaling him with things he’d seen out and about in Pompeii, when it was a thriving trading hub, and Steve was trying to pretend he wasn't bitterly jealous.

It must have shown on his face, because Bucky broke off, looking at him questioningly. Steve liked talking about feelings even less than Bucky did and, truth be told, he was extremely distracted by the cupid’s bow dip of Bucky’s mouth. So Steve leaned up and kissed him.

Bucky shivered, sighed, and slid a hand into Steve’s hair. Steve couldn't tell which hand it was. He was on fire.

+

Bucky was so cagey about personal questions that Steve tried never to pry, but one lazy, rainy day his resistance ran thin. He knew a blunt _how old are you?_ would be met by flat refusal, so he asked:

“What century do you exist in, technically? If you weren't living in here.”

“Twenty-first,” Bucky said sleepily, drifting off from Steve’s ministrations to his hair. Traitorous hands. Steve had so many more questions.

_Twenty-first_ century. It sounded like science-fiction.

“Where did you grow up?” asked Steve, thinking he was clever, but Bucky just mumbled, “Drumanagh,” and fell asleep.

+

It was an accident that he found out.

Bucky had brought back a newspaper from his most recent foray into the living world, because Steve mentioned missing the crossword. They were lounging in Bucky’s coffin, Bucky’s metal hand rubbing soothing circles on Steve’s ankle, as Steve absently flipped the paper over.

He sat straight up and banged his head on the propped-open lid.

“What?” Bucky jolted up too. “What is it?”

+

“He’s a madman. He's invaded half of Europe already. He’s shoving Jews into ghettos—” Steve pulled in a steadying breath.

Nick folded his arms across his chest. “So what exactly are you telling me?”

“I think you know.”

Nick nodded slowly. “I would say _see_ _you_ _later_. But.”

Steve held out his hand. Nick shook it.

“Take care of yourself, Mr. Rogers.”

“Take care of this graveyard, Mr. Fury.”

“Don't need _you_ to tell me that,” he murmured as Steve walked away. He tossed newspaper, front page splashed with drawing of Uncle Sam pointing patriotically, onto the ground.

+

“You heading out?” Bucky asked as Steve shuffled back into the chapel, shoulders hunched, as if Steve were just ducking out for a newspaper and cup of coffee, and not—

“I wish I was enhanced,” Steve blurted. “So that—”

“Don't,” Bucky said easily. “Because first: like hell are you ever going to experiment on yourself or something just to see _me_. But also: told you I don't live here, normally. Fury gave me indefinite leave to remain, to look after you. But once you go, I go.”

“But. What do you do when you're not here?”

Bucky shrugged. “Did a lot of damage for a lot of centuries. Figured the least I could do is try and get rid of some other evil in the world.”

“So this graveyard is, what, a safe house for you?”

“Basically. I stop here and crash every now and then. But I don't really belong here. And neither do you,” Bucky said pointedly.

Steve’s laugh broke into a sob at the end, which they both ignored. “How are you so calm about this?”

Bucky smiled, but it wasn't his usual cocky grin. “The only certainty in life is death and taxes.”

“And one of those doesn't even apply to me.”

“The Grey Lady comes for us all,” Bucky said softly. “I'll be waiting for ya at the end of the line, pal. So go have an eventful life in the meantime.”

+

Neither of them mentioned that he, Steve, would never be buried in this particular graveyard. Maybe Bucky would find him elsewhere. Steve would fade in and out of graveyards the world over, okay, he’d _travel_ , and make ghost friends, and inquire about a ghost story of his own.

+

Steve thought about Bucky every day out on the front while curled up in ditches in rural France or under bridges in Poland with the Commandos. He was already seeing ghosts everywhere. He kept slipping up and calling Howard _Tony_ during the procedure, to the point where Howard clearly thought he was a bit touched to the head, and pulled Dr. Erskine aside to discuss his concerns with their test subject.

Erskine waved away Howard’s doubts, claiming that all geniuses were a little mad, but essentially good at heart. They both glanced at Steve then who was, most unfortunately, staring at Howard with the unrequested knowledge that he and his wife would perish, untimely, followed shortly by their son, and what the _fuck_ , how unfair that he was burdened with this prescience—

Dr. Erskine quietly reran the physical and mental health tests, which Steve passed with flying colors.

Though maybe he shouldn't have; when he heard about a group of American GIs trapped behind enemy lines at Azzano, all he could think of was Bucky saving him, a stranger, in front of some graveyard gates—and then Steve was jumping out of an airplane to perform a solo rescue mission.

Howard most definitely was convinced of Steve’s fragile mental state by then. He seemed to like him well enough, though. So did the General’s aide, Private Lorraine—but Steve kept seeing a different pair of blue eyes superimposed over her face, and kept to himself.

The Commandos foiled Hydra’s plans time and again, but Steve knew they were only chipping away at a massive plinth of power. He was altogether too acquainted with _other_ types of beings, and Red Skull was neither human nor young.

The other Commandos trusted him implicitly as a C.O., but keep a wary distance socially. They'd seen him perform inexplicable escapes through Fading or Haunting or Dreamwalking. They saw him cheat death so many times that they began to suspect he didn't fear it at all.

They were wrong.

He longed for it.

And _that_ , once he’d admitted it to himself, was so messed up that Steve resolved to live his life to the fullest after the war was over. Bucky would kick his teeth in otherwise.

Ironic, really, he thought to himself as he crashed a plane full of nukes in the ocean. He was going home; but Bucky would no longer be there.

 

coda

Steve was wandering around the city, because that’s what you do when you are a man out of time, when you feel more like a ghost than you ever did while living in a graveyard with actual ghosts.

Although full disclosure: he was following a guy that looked like Bucky—from behind, at least. Tall-ish, slender, pale, dressed in all black—the vaguely Eastern European type or maybe low-key punk. He’d fallen into a full 48-hour Wikipedia research binge the other night until Maria Hill had pulled him out of it.

Steve thought he was being inconspicuous, but apparently he was just as bad of a liar physically as he was verbally. A mere five blocks later the guy stopped short, spun around, and said, “Okay, pal, what’s your damage?”

And Steve could only gape.

Bucky started to sink to the ground. Steve reached out a hand to prop him up. The moment his hand made contact with Bucky’s arm, Bucky shook his head and blinked.

“You’re _real_ ,” he said.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

Bucky huffed out a desperate laugh. “The number of times I’ve hallucinated you—” His eyes cleared and he straightened. The look of astonishment was rapidly fading into anger. “What the hell are you doing here? _Steve_ , do you know what year it is?”

“It’s 2011, apparently,” he said, because it still felt pretend to him—a silkscreen of reality. “What are _you_ doing here?” and most of his words were lost to helpless laughter.

“I _live_ here, you jackass. I told you where I was from!”

“You said the twenty-first century! I didn’t know which part! It’s barely the beginning.”

Steve had been waking up from nightmares regularly about Bucky finally turning up the day after he, Steve, died.

Steve started shivering, a side effect from being frozen, maybe, and Bucky pulled him snug into his arms.

“I saw the headlines,” Bucky murmured, running a hand through Steve’s hair. “In 1945. I'd barely left you in the graveyard two minutes before, playing stickball with Clint, and they slapped me in the face.”

“When?” Steve croaked, but Bucky understood.

“Not long. Couple weeks after you arrived.”

Steve tightened his grip on Bucky and Bucky snorted.

“You goddamn hero,” he murmured. “I knew I had no claim on you, but I was pissed all the same. Fate gives me you and you were slated to die.”

“Yeah,” Steve huffed, hysterical in a way that he hadn't been in a long time. “About that…”

They both laughed until they cried then, right there in the street corner between a tide of ambling tourists and bustling commuters.

“You want to get some food?” Steve finally said, wiping his eyes. “I'm starving.”

“Sure,” said Bucky. “Just like old times. Scavenging some food for you because you eat ten times the size of your tiny body.”

They both grinned and Bucky ran a hand over Steve’s bulky back.

“Feels like forever ago now,” he added.

“How long’s it been for you?” Steve asked as they set down the street.

“Who knows for sure?” Bucky said flippantly. “Was in and out of time for a while, working,” but Steve could see it in his eyes: Bucky had been lonely for a very long time.

+

“So I'm having a thought,” said Bucky.

“Hm?” Steve was having trouble concentrating, because it was so luxuriously roomy in the king sized bed SHIELD had provided for him, compared to a narrow coffin.

“Now that you saved the world and got rid of Schmidt, for a least a couple millenia hopefully, and fulfilled a prophecy and stuff—”

“Oh, you know. Same old.”

“Maybe take a moratorium on trying to die so much, okay?”

“Mm, alright. Sounds do-able.”

“I'm just saying.  Might make for a nice change of pace.”

“I'm not arguing.”

“Just when you _do_ finally kick the bucket,” and Bucky was using his teasing voice, but Steve could hear the underlying utter seriousness, “just try and die somewhere nearby so I don’t have to bust my ass traveling to some far-off graveyard to see you, okay?”

Steve reached up a hand to sheepishly scrub at his neck. “Ah—yeah—about that…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ahhh I can't believe this story is over, I've had so much fun writing it and reading your reactions)
> 
> while this is based on the bones of neil gaiman's The Graveyard Book, it differs pretty drastically - go check it out from the lib if you want a good read
> 
> [Hydra](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lernaean_Hydra) / in mythology, Hercules killed the Hydra, but most monsters in Greek/Roman mythos never truly stay dead and eventually reform. also while hydra was never said to be a shapeshifter, for the purposes of this fic it takes the human form of Johann Schmidt/Red Skull when it feels it to be useful. it wasn't uncommon for gods or monsters to take human or other animal forms when it suited them
> 
> [Drumanagh](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drumanagh) / roman trading colony in eastern ireland during the roman empire
> 
> [Clint's godly parent](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hermes)
> 
> [Natasha's niece](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Duchess_Anastasia_Nikolaevna_of_Russia) / look, natasha's surname is _romanov_ , marvel clearly made a deliberate choice
> 
> [the furies](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erinyes)  
>  
> 
> [ [tumblr link](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/post/147699017994/flesh-and-bone) ]


	8. epilogue

It was the kind of thing you told misbehaving children: “Stop bothering your sister! Or the Winter Soldier will come for you—” a joke, a tease, and then as the decades and eras passed, so did the legends evolve: and it was a thing you'd curse upon your enemy.

_The Winter Soldier will be coming for him soon enough, you mark my words,_ a gentleman murmured to his lady as they hurried past the gallows, where a poster with a hurried sketched face stared back at them: an ambitious man from the south end, who had evidently eviscerated three people already, and prowled for a fourth.

The Dark Ages rose and fell and with them the monarchies, and the Winter Soldier watched, with humor, democracies come into vogue again, as his own reputation shifted from a demon to be summoned into a monster of its own free will. It pleased him; now evil itself was fair game for his many talents.

And as the Industrial Age waned and the twentieth century rolled around, people were once again Too Rational for ghost stories and fairy tales (fuck, it was the 1700s all over again) and his notoriety fell into disfavor. This was not displeasing; quiet work is done better at the hands of an unknown.

The centuries moved along, as they do, and centralized governments splintered into smaller decentralized units, and technology meshed with newfound pressure for environmentalism, and the people moved backwards in moving forwards, and the whispers started up again.

_You’ll want to be careful with that blackmail,_ an apprentice snarled to her master, _or the Winter Soldier will come for you._

_If the Captain comes by and sees you,_ a tall boy said to another, beating up on a smaller kid, _he’ll come at you with his flying saucer. And sic his mate on you._

_It was. It was? You won't believe me,_ the homeless man told the sheriff, shivering on the ground of the village walls. _They had me surrounded. And then. A man with a metal arm? And a tall blond Valkyrie— and then after they ran the gang off, I turned to say thanks and they— don't look at me like that— they disappeared— stop laughing! I'm drunk, but not that drunk— I know what I saw—_

_It'll be all right,_ the mother whispered to her crying daughter. _She’ll be back from war soon enough. Light a candle to the Winter Soldier, he’ll see you through. He waited for his love to return from war for ages and ages_


End file.
